life is anything but fair (won't you lay me down?)
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: Feeling in need of inspiration, writer Rhaegar Targaryen moves all the way to the wild North (because that is what writers do). Instead of inspiration he finds something else. Halloween piece.


i. The landscape was certainly something to be admired, rather romantic in itself, one had to admit. And Rhaegar admitted to it in a rather free manner. The North was wild, certainly, but is also inspired awe. A tremor shook his hand.

"It really is magnificent," he commented in a low voice.

"I thought you might like it." Ned Stark started walking towards the main entrance. "The portion of the castle still standing is very old. And that tower over there," he pointed towards the one he meant.

"And the rest has been modified," Rhaegar offered rather superfluously. Ned gave a swift nod.

ii. "What about that local legend I kept hearing about on the way here?" His guide stopped short, turning around just slightly to watch him with a frosty gaze. "Well, you can't blame a man for being curious, can you?"

"I suppose not," Ned allowed. "It's one of those stories one hears concerning old places. I can't think that you'd be very interested in it." Still, it was apparent that the man was quite ready to share with him whatever details he did possess.

Rhaegar found, however, that he had to insist upon the matter before anything would fall in his lap.

iii. The weirwood stood proudly in the godswood, white bark shining in the light of the sun. Rhaegar observed the severe face watching him and Ned as they made their way about the grass. There was something about those unfathomable eyes that chilled him to the bone. It was like watching winter head straight towards him. Of course, it could not help that the braches bled red leaves or that the face was set in a perpetual frown. A shiver ran down his spine. Was it not that the men of old would sacrifice their brethren to these idols? Rhaegar walked closer to the tree.

iv. "So there is no truth to it?" he prodded, following Ned down into the well lit crypt. The heavy doors had remained open in their wake, sunlight streaming in.

"I couldn't say anything of the particulars," came the answer. "However, it seems that there is some truth in it. A seed if you will. Come, look at this."

Rhaegar came closer to what looked to be the statue of a woman. It stood out precisely because it was in the shape of a female. Time had eaten away at the features carved in the stone, leaving behind an almost smooth shape. The lady depicted looked almost faceless, only a hint of her eyes having remained.

Ned pointed to the runes.

v. "This is the Old Tongue." It was rather medieval Westerosi to be truthful. The veritable Old Tongue had been spoken thousands of years ago by the First Men. "I cannot read that."

"It says, and I quote, _For she whose sacrifice gave us victory, may the lights ever shine._ Rather cryptic if you ask me." Rhaegar would have to agree with Ned's assessment. He looked up at the nearly faceless statue once more.

"Does she have a name?" It seemed only right that her name would have survived as well.

"Not that I know of. She is simply known as Lady Stark."

vi. The tower was what one would expect of such a structure. At least from outside. Rhaegar tore his eyes from the view the large window afforded him and looked at the pristine Word document before his eyes. Then his gaze shifted to the tower again. There was something undeniably magnetic about its presence.

All of a sudden, the phone rang. With a sigh, Rhaegar stood up and neared the device. However, as soon as hi fingers made contact with it, the ringing died down instantly. That was rather strange. Shaking his head, Rhaegar made his way back to the table.

"I really have to start writing this thing," he muttered to himself.

vii. No ghosts disturbed his rest. That was a decidedly positive thing. No memories tormented him and no regrets kept him tossing and turning. Indeed, it was quite more than he had expected when coming to this place.

Rolling out of bed, he pulled a shirt on and ambled downstairs towards the large kitchen. The fridge had been stocked with food, so his search for something edible was not long, nor particularly gruelling.

But as he was about to turn on the stove, something caught his eye.

On the table, next to the papers he'd left strewn all around, sat a single blue rose.

viii. The small vase holding the single flower had been placed near the window, in direct path of the warm sunlight. Rhaegar stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, eyes glued to the pretty, ephemeral and thoroughly unexpected apparition.

Winter Roses, as their name suggested, belonged to that snowy seasons which was still off. Of course, they could be otherwise grown in special conditions. But why would anyone leave him such a flower.

Still, the sight of it was nothing he could protest to.

An idea took root in his mind. He would start working on that book later it would seem.

ix. There seemed to be hundreds of them. Rhaegar tipped his head backward, just enough for his gaze to reach the topmost spot where the greenery lost itself against the desolate grey of the tower bricks. Blue roses ripped small holes in the blanket of otherwise pure green.

It was definitely not their season. So why where they growing there? And in such great numbers too.

A gust of wind blew past him, chilly and cutting, at great contrast with the earlier warmth of the day. Rhaegar shivered involuntarily.

Inexplicably, he had the urge to turn and run. Run far away and never look back. He did not do so. In fact, Rhaegar forced himself to push open the door that allowed him access to the tower and he stepped inside.

x. It was not so dark within the brick walls that one could no longer see anything. But for all that, the semi-darkness held something oppressive. It could not be identified, even less so named. But it was there. A presence of sorts.

Rhaegar pushed himself forward, claiming the first step of the stairwell. The wood creaked beneath his foot, but the wood seemed solid enough. He took another step. Then another and another, until he'd crossed about half of the total number of stairs.

And that was when it hit him. It came out of nowhere. A sudden pain ripped through him. His chest filled with it, heart beating faster and faster.

xi. "There might be something helpful here," Ned said, handing him a tome. "I still don't know how learning about this is going to help you. Do you plan to add a ghost to the mix?"

"I might," Rhaegar offered offhandedly. "I can't tell at this point. But it's good to be prepared anyway. Besides, I'm the one who lives in a haunted house."

"I thought you didn't believe in spirits." They stared at one another for a long moment.

"I never claimed that." It was rather that he had been given no reason to believe. In anything, for that matter. "I am open to convincing. If it can be managed, of course."

xii. The housekeeper gave him a mild look that could have been interpreted in a thousand ways had Rhaegar decided to do it. He was, however, more interested in what she knew of local folklore. So he waited patiently.

"I suppose it's rather well known around these parts," she said. Her bright blue eyes darted about the room. "Didn't Ned speak of it to you?"

"He said he hardly knew anything of importance on the matter." The admission brought a scarlet flush to the woman's cheeks. "I am however still rather curious about this supposed apparition that haunts my home." Maybe he would even have the good fortune to see her at some point.

"Well, I suppose it can't hurt anything," the woman shrugged. "Do sit down."

xiii. "The legend goes that a long, long time ago, back when the Wall still stood strong, the Starks of Winterfell fell prey to the wrath of the King sitting the Iron Throne for some reason which has long since been lost. The King sent an army against them, but to his consternation found that his soldiers had put before the gates wide banners of pure black. The sole daughter of the Keep had died and her death seemed to inspire her father's men towards victory. It is said that her ghost still walks battlements of the old keep and so long as she resides here, no harm may be brought to her home."

xiv. "And no one knows her name? Or at least the time she is believed to have lived in?" It was all rather fascinating. The housekeeper shook her head dutifully. "Have you ever seen her ghost, Nan?"

"Glimpses," she confessed. There was something uneasy about the way she held herself just then. "She's not always willing to show herself. But when she is, you'll be sure to see her. Though, I feel like I should warn you–"

"No need for that," Rhaegar interrupted. "Diverting as the tale was, I am the least likely person to which your ghost might show herself." And yet, a feeling of dread settled low in his stomach, even as he smiled at the woman.

Or maybe that was just his stomach telling him it was time to eat.

xv. "Blast," he cursed, swiftly hauling himself off of his chair and running towards the phone. The past few days had made him quite immune to prank calls, but perhaps if he could just find out who kept calling without saying a thing. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Rhaegar, hey. It's Arthur," the voice of his old friend sounded out from the other end of the line. "Is this a bad time?"

"Arthur," Rhaegar offered by way of greeting, running his fingers through tousled hair. "No, no. I've just had a few prank calls. Thought it might be one of those. But it's not a bad time."

"Oh, good." There was a short silence. Rhaegar thought he could heard the voice of a woman speaking gibberish. Then it stopped, quite suddenly and Arthur was speaking once more, "–and we thought we might stop by and see how you were doing."

"What?" he forced himself to ask. "Can you repeat that? I lost you for a second there."

xvi. Tyta preceded her husband into the house. She held out the bottle of wine with as much finesse as Rhaegar had come to expect of the young woman. She offered him a small, unsure smile. "And hello to you too, Tyta," Rhaegar greeted her in a friendly manner, one hand going for the wine, the other clasping Arthur's outstretched hand. "Arthur."

"Rhaegar," his oldest friend greeted back. Arthur helped his wife out of her coat, hanging it up with his own. Then he turned an appreciative eye towards Rhaegar's new home. "Not bad."

"And it comes with its own special bit of lore," Rhaegar remarked dryly.

xvii. Having busied herself with fetching some glasses from the cabinet, Tyta was the last of Rhaegar's concerns. Nor was Arthur overly concerned about his wife. That was until they both heard the sound of glass breaking and something that sounded suspiciously like a table toppling over.

They both rushed to the kitchen area in time to see a mighty gust of wind sending the curtains billowing, shards on the floor and a fairly scared woman cowering rather pathetically on the ground.

"What the hell?" Arthur growled, stalking towards his wife. He helped her gently up. "Tyta, are you alright?" The young woman was nodding her head.

"What happened here?" Rhaegar asked, masking his anxiety as best as he could.

Tyta's hands moved, spelling out her answer.

xviii. "Whatever it was, it wasn't the wind," Arthur offered, arms crossed over his chest. They'd managed to calm Tyta down just enough to get her to one of the many rooms with a bed and make her lie down. Hopefully a bit of sleep would restore her. "Maybe you shouldn't remain here. We could drive into town."

"No. I'm not going." His refusal was met with a hard stare from his friend. Rhaegar persisted in shaking his head. "Whatever your wife saw, I want to see it as well."

"I don't think this is a good idea." The words glided right off Rhaegar's shoulder.

xix. Dark eyes regarded him warily. Rhaegar could no nothing but offer her an apologetic smile. "I am so sorry, Tyta. You must have been scared." She nodded her head once is a short, brisk manner. "What did you see? Can you tell me?"

Tyta looked over his shoulder, presumably at her husband, who was pacing back and forth. Then she raised her hands, going through a series of motions. Rhaegar watched her with attention. "You are sure?" he questioned once again for good measure after she was done. Her answer was in the affirmative.

"Thank you, Tyta. You're a good friend." She smiled at the compliment.

xx. He had managed to write more than sixty pages. Rhaegar was actually impressed. It seemed that the ghost deserved some sort of acknowledgement. After all, had she – and Tyta assured him it was in fact a she – not made her appearance when she had, he might have not been able to come up with such an idea.

So, to snow her his gratitude, Rhaegar had bought her a bouquet of white flowers. He put them in a new vase, along with a now wilting blue rose.

"Thank you, Lady Stark," he addressed the emptiness of the kitchen. Rhaegar waited a few moment, curious to see if the spirit might reply.

A sudden cool breeze sped past him.

xxi. He was dreaming. How did Rhaegar know that? Well, it was because he'd had the dream so many times that it was no longer difficult to gain that awareness. That, along with the fact that his former wife and their children were somewhere in Dorne, enjoying all that Sunspearhad to offer.

As dreams went, it was rather uninspired. Rhaegar sat down, watching the scene with a keen eye. Any time he would wake up.

Contrary, however, to former experience, the atmosphere suddenly grew tense. Elia and the children bled away, leaving behind them a cold and empty room.

A jolt ran up his spine and something terrifying appeared out of nowhere.

xxii. He woke up gasping for air, clawing at pristine sheets. Rhaegar coughed, trying to clear his lungs.

That was bad enough on its own. The next thing he noticed was a figure floating at the foot of the bed. That was even worse.

"Lady Stark," he said, quite without thinking.

Fathomless eyes stared at him from within a pale, small face. The young-looking apparition leaned towards him ever so slightly. Rhaegar remained riveted. "You are welcome. The flowers are nice."

When one communicated with otherworldly beings, Rhaegar supposed that the image was meant to strike.

For him, however, it was the sound of her voice.

xxiii. Ghosts were very much similar to humans. Or so it seemed to Rhaegar Targaryen.

He'd been in the kitchen, having breakfast. Thankfully for him, already knowing about the permanent guest in his home he did not drop his plate on the ground as the misty form of Lady Stark make its appearance before him just as he piled one last pancake on his plate.

"Good morning, my lady," he addressed her reverently, mouth quirking in a half smile.

Lady Stark offered a cheery version of her own grin. "I still do not know your name, ser," she said, the tremulous voice wafting through the room.

Remembering Nan's tale, Rhaegar hesitated a moment. "I am called Rhaegar Targaryen," he answered nonetheless after a short silence.

The phantom made a short sound in the back of her throat and drifted towards the window. She leaned over the flowers.

xxiv. "Can you actually smell them?" Rhaegar found himself questioning as he admired Lady Stark's profile, shinning in the daylight. As she wasn't a wholly corporeal being, her translucent frame both absorbed and reflected the light. It was quite strange. But very beautiful to witness.

"Indeed I can," she answered. "Are you a descendant of the Targaryen of Dragonstone?" she questioned him in turn, her form whirling around.

"No." He took a bite of his breakfast, chewed on it thoughtfully and swallowed. "But without doubt my ancestry can be traced back to the House Targaryen of Dragonstone." She must have lived in the early medieval period, for later on House Targaryen had branched out, birthing the Targaryens of King's Landing and, even later on, the Targaryen of Harrenhal.

"Where do you come from then?" she insisted.

Rhaegar's eyes glazed over. "That, my lady, is something I don't want to speak of right now.

xxv. She was very young. If he were to determine, he would place her somewhere around sixteen or so. Though one could not be sure. Her youthful face and her tiny, slim figure could, after all, be the cause of some mistake in that. Alas, the fact still remained that she'd been very young when she died, hardly having had a life.

A strange sort of sadness crept upon him at the notion. Such a beautiful woman did not deserve the beautiful end that had been assigned to her. The Lord of Light must have been blind to her suffering, or deaf.

xxvi. What followed was him settling into a routine. As a writer, Rhaegar had much free time on his hands, which he should be using for writing. Instead, he was taking walks, looking at the small town he'd somehow landed in and wondering incessantly about Lady Stark.

Her spectre, beautiful as it was, held little information for it. It was possible that the passage of time had eroded her memories, or it might be that she herself had pushed them away, but what remained was that Lady Stark could remember very little of her past life, among which her name did not even feature.

xxvii. He'd been sleeping when his phone began to ring. Rhaegar searched for the annoying device without even bothering to lift his face from the pillow. He found it, strangely enough, somewhere next to him, when he clearly remembered having put it on the nightstand.

He answered and looked up. Lady Stark's form was floating above the bed.

"Hello," he greeted pleasantly, absentmindedly wondering if Lady Stark had been there the whole night.

"Rhaegar!" a soft, female voice answered. "How are you?"

"Danny," he said, more in recognition than anything. Before realising what he was doing, he spoke to Lady Stark. "Danny's my sister."

"Is there someone with you?" the said sister inquired. "Is it a girl? It's a girl isn't it?"

"That is none of your business," he replied sternly.

xxviii. "I had brothers," Lady Stark offered. She rarely spoke of her family. When they did talk, it was about the present day politics, affairs of the state and whatnot. But details about their personal life had not yet been discussed. "Three of them. Two were older and one of them was younger."

"Aren't they here with you?" Rhaegar asked. She shook her head. "You must miss them."

"Sometimes I do," she revealed. "But I cannot even remember their faces."

"It's been a long time," Rhaegar offered with a shrug. "But we could try finding something in a history book."

She laughed, tinkling, sweet and clear. "Books seldom help, my good ser."

"Do you not even recall their names?" She fell silent then, seemingly concentrating of finding that particular memory.

Alas, she could not find anything of use. Rhaegar gave her a soft smile.

xxix. Ned gave him a dry look. "You want me to talk to her?" More than once, Ned had affirmed that there was indeed a ghost, but whatever details he knew about Lady Stark, he would not speak them. "And why would I do that? For all I know, she could want to murder me."

"That's hardly fair," Rhaegar replied. "Lady Stark is a very sweet girl. I doubt she wants to kill anyone."

"You never know," the other man shrugged. "I heard once that it was an illness that killed her."

That was hardly something to marvel at, Rhaegar considered. Yes, it quite fit. "Such a pity. She was so young."

"Aren't they all?" Ned have him a short nod.

xxx. He was going to go insane. Rhaegar closed the tome he'd been looking through. He sighed and took out his phone. Squinting at the screen he cursed himself for having forgotten his glasses at home. Strange that he'd come to think of it as home.

He dialled Elia's number and waited for her to pick up. "Hello, Elia. This is Rhaegar. Do you have a moment?"

A muffled voice said something on the other line and then Elia replied. "Yes. Sure. What's up?"

Since taking up with a much younger man, Elia had adopted his speech entirely. Rhaegar smiled. At least she was happy. "Look, I was wondering if you could help me out with something."

"Okay. What do you need?" she asked.

"Just a few files from the History Department," he answered sincerely.

xxxi. In their youth, Elia and Rhaegar had rather foolishly decided to get married. Unfortunately for them, no one had even once told them that being married was about having responsibilities, raising children and being there for one another. So, naturally, they fell apart shortly after the birth of their second child, a boy named Aegon. His older sister was called Rhaenys.

Since they split, Rhaegar thought it best to leave the children with Elia as he himself did not have a lifestyle which would allow for raising the two toddlers. They remained on good enough terms that him calling her up every now and again to ask after the children or for some small favour did not constitute a problem.

xxxiv. The mailman had deposited the package on the doorsteps of the mansion. As Rhaegar was walking up towards the door it swung open and Lady Stark's form glowed in the doorway. She greeted him with a small smile.

"Can't you pick it up?" he pointed towards the package, more curious than actually wishing for her to carry it inside.

"I suppose I could." She smiled but made to move to do so.

With an amused sigh, Rhaegar bent down and took it in his arms. He grimaced. "What did this woman send? Rocks?"

Again, his ghostly friend laughed, the sound of it warming him up inside.

xxxv. Elia had done surprisingly well, all obstacles considered. What his former wife had given him was an expanded tree of House Stark of Winterfell. Rhaegar read through the information she'd culled together avidly, trying to find anything which sounded like Lady Stark.

In the meantime, Lady Stark had made herself comfortable somewhere near the window. Her eyes had landed on the old tower. "It was very cold when I died," she said out of nowhere. Rhaegar lifted his head to gaze at her. She continued to stare out the window. "It was snowing and a bitter wind had come from up north." Her spectral image shivered as if the cold was within the room.

xxxvi. "I think I've found something," Rhaegar announced. Lady Stark had disappeared sometime during the long hours of the evening, perhaps hiding somewhere inside the house walls, or even. Apparently, she could never leave the premises of what used to be the keep of Winterfell. Though she had tried at some point, according to the stories she had told him.

But as his voice filled the room and the lights flickered gently, Rhaegar knew that she had heard him. Within moments, her ethereal frame rose through the floor. "I was in the crypts," she answered the silent question he had dared pose. "Sometimes, when I am there, it is easier to feel…closer to home."

xxxvii. Rhaegar held out a piece of paper to her. "I think I've found out who you are." It seemed a strange thing to speak of her as if she yet lived, but certainly her existence being not over, he could not say it any differently. "Lady Lyanna Stark," he spoke her name with conviction.

He observed her closely, from the parting of her lips to the trembling of her form and back to the horror which bloomed on her features. A sob of pain pierced the heavy silence which fell between them and Lyanna Stark's ghost disappeared from sigh the next moment.

Standing to his feet, Rhaegar staggered forward as a chill crept up upon him.

Something terrible had come.

loud bangs on the door nearly made his heart jump out of his chest. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, dread and terror mingling inside of him. But, at a long last, his feet could stand still no more and he found himself led, more by instinct than anything else, to the door.

He opened it only to come fact to face with a pale Ned Stark. And Rhaegar could only stare at the young man and wonder. It all seemed so fantastical, so out if the realm of possibility.

"How?" he could not help asking. "How is this possible?"

Ned's eyes shone with a strange light. He seemed to be staring through Rhaegar and as soon as he entered he began climbing an invisible staircase.

Unwilling to be left without answers, Rhaegar rushed after him.

xxxix. There were no actual stairs to be seen beneath him, but for all that, they felt real. Rhaegar stopped a moment, closed his eyes and when he opened them again, the walls of his home were no longer as he knew them. Stones had taken the place of wood and varnish, and the hall went on and on.

Before him, Ned kept walking. Rhaegar called after him, but there was no reply to be had. "Ned Stark, wait!" But he did not and so Rhaegar was forced once again to follow into what looked to be another hallway.

It seemed a lifetime before they actually stopped in front of a door. Rhaegar waited to see what would happen.

xl. The heavy door opened and admitted inside the chamber both himself and Ned. Rhaegar, thinking it better to not draw attention upon himself, although it seemed that no one could see him, crept in as quietly as he could.

And the sight which reached his eyes was both terrifying and beautiful. Beside a wide window, dressed after the fashion of the medieval high court, was none other but Lyanna Stark in all her living splendour. She lived. At least inside whatever moment in time he'd been led into.

Her face turned towards her brother, and subsequently to him, the maiden sighed deeply. "Oh Ned, I wish to hear no more. Father has scolded me enough. Have some pity, won't you?"

xli. But whatever that had been – a figment of his own imagination, a piece of Lyanna Stark's memories or those of Ned – it all vanished into thin air, leaving him in a sea of darkness. A terrible coldness stabbed at him suddenly, wrapping around him. He tried to pull away, but a pressure settled over him, strong and unyielding. It was unpleasant, but more than anything, terrifying.

If only he could move. Frozen and frightened, Rhaegar closed his eyes and forced himself to remember a prayer, a light, anything to break through the darkness.

And then he heard it. Her voice, ringing out from all around him.


End file.
